


Anyone But You

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Pain, Regret, Sad Sherlock, Self-Harm, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: A take on the end of season 4, episode 1. (don't read if you haven't watched)"He says—John said, if you were to come around, asking after him... offering to help... He... said... that he'd rather have anyone but you. Anyone."





	1. Chapter 1

" _I'm sorry, Sherlock." Molly paused, looking away. "He says—John said, if you were to come around, asking after him... offering to help... He... said... that he'd rather have anyone but you. Anyone."_

Sherlock's eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, and it took him several seconds to process where he was again. He took a deep breath of warm steamy air and let it out again, trying to let the tension out of his shoulders. The shower had run hot while he was stood there, thinking—painfully hot, actually.

He shut his eyes again, setting his jaw against the stinging sensation on his skin.

_Anyone..._

That was John's voice now, not Molly's...

Time slipped away as he stood there, and it was only when the hot water began to run out that he finally shut it off and stepped out, drying off and going to his room to get dressed. He moved slowly then, walking back to the bathroom, which still felt like a sauna, and opening the medicine cabinet.

Sherlock picked up his straight razor from the shelf, and then paused.

_Anyone but you..._

_**Failure...** _

He stared at it for a long time, before raising his eyes to the foggy mirror. It was just beginning to clear a bit in the fresh air from the open door, so that he could see a dim outline of his own face. He put a hand to his cheek, frowning.

_**Overconfident...** _

Sherlock took another deep breath and quickly set the razor back on the shelf, shutting the cabinet door.

Shaving could wait, for now.

The flat was extraordinarily quiet, somehow even more so than before, when... everything was okay... even if it had still only been him living there. It almost felt wrong to be making any sound.

He stepped out into the living room, his eyes surveying every detail while his mind worked in overdrive, searching for the way out.

The way out of this problem.

The problem of what to do about John.

There was a cup of tea perched on the desk, he noted. Had that been there before? It _hadn't_ been there before... had it?

It was cold to the touch... Mrs. Hudson must have left it.

A sudden sound broke the silence in the flat, a quiet growling. Sherlock just ignored it, biting his tongue, and stalked over to his laptop. He'd known he was hungry for a while, but for some reason that only made him angry.

_How_ _**dare** _ _you..._

He threw himself down in the chair and flipped the laptop open, beginning to scroll.

_**Anyone** _ _but_ _**you...** _

Finally he had to stop, closing his eyes again and lacing his fingers together on the keyboard, just staying quiet for a minute, head bowed.

It would all be okay...

_No it wouldn't, you_ _**selfish prick.** _

_**You failed.** _

_You got cocky, and you weren't good enough._

_You couldn't do it._

_**Of course** _ _John wouldn't want to see you, who would?_

_**Lying, pathetic, failu—** _

Sherlock snapped the laptop shut harder than he meant to, almost startling himself. He stared blankly at the table in front of him, before pushing himself up and beginning to pace the length of the room.

Better than doing nothing.

But not good enough.

He needed to _do_ something about it...

John needed someone who would be there for him, like Mary had asked him to in the video she'd left, someone who would... protect him.

Not only from being targeted, but from himself.

Sherlock tangled his fingers roughly in his curls, his breath hissing in through gritted teeth as he paced. The ache in his stomach wasn't going away, but for once that was fine.

Better, even.

It made it easier, somehow, to focus on what was _really_ important right now... _finding that way out._


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


_Save John Watson._

_Save him._

_**Save him.** _

A text alert broke the silence, and Sherlock opened his eyes and quickly lifted his head from where it had been resting on his knees, as he sat curled up in his chair—but the small hope that had risen in him quickly fell again, smashing on the floor like all the dishes he'd thrown at the wall last night.

It wasn't John.

He should have _known..._

It had only been a few days, and there was no reason John should have forgiven him anyway...

Sherlock sat there for a long time, not moving, and not really seeing the phone his eyes were locked on. Finally he reached over and snatched it up, opening the text and quickly writing a reply, knowing full well that the recipient wouldn't listen to him anyway.

'Leave me alone. ~SH'

He waited, staring at the screen for a full minute before he got an answer.

'Too late. I'm here. ~M'

_Predictable..._

Sherlock sighed quietly through gritted teeth, lowering his head. He held the phone in both hands and rested his forehead against them, drawing in a deep breath of dust and silence.

He half-heartedly struck the heels of his hands against his temples, gripping the phone tightly, and then again, more decidedly this time.

It didn't make the headache any better.

It made it worse.

Soon came the footsteps on the stairs that he'd been dreading, eliciting a groan from him as the door opened. He didn't have to look up to know that Mycroft was standing there, or to guess the expression on the elder Holmes' face.

“I would ask if you've been well... but we both know that's exactly why I'm here.” Mycroft remained by the door for a moment, taking in the state of things.

“Leave me _alone..._ ”

“Yes, you expressed that sentiment perfectly well via text message, and my answer should still be very clear, considering where I'm currently standing.”

Sherlock raised his head, and the look in his eyes seemed to have Mycroft taken-aback, if only for just a tiny sliver of a second. “I'm completely _fine._ ”

_There was that damned split-second of hesitation..._

_**Don't say it...** _

“And I suppose that's why you haven't eaten in four and a half days, hm? Why you haven't slept? Why you haven't stepped foot outside in—”

“I said _SHUT UP!_ ” Sherlock put all his concentration into holding his hands still, not letting them _dare_ tremble...

Mycroft raised an eyebrow infuriatingly. “You didn't say that...”

“ _I was thinking it..._ ”

For several long moments there was silence as Mycroft paused, a silence that made Sherlock want to tear his hair out, or to smash the lamp, to just destroy _something_ in general—but he stayed completely still.

He would not give Mycroft that satisfaction.

“Mrs. Hudson has expressed to me her concern for you. Repeatedly.”

His eyes followed Mycroft's to the piles of shattered dishes that littered the floor by the window, and Sherlock glanced away. He tapped his fingertips against the phone he was still holding distractedly. “I'll be quieter, then...”

“No, you won't.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and managed a little shrug, still not looking at his brother in the vain hope that he could somehow hide the emotion he had been trying so hard to repress from the man who sees everything.

But he knew it was already a useless task.

The sound of his voice had already given him away.

He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, and knew instinctively that he was being surveyed, deduced, catalogued, and diagnosed. It felt... invasive. Which was a feeling he was used to, but he wasn't usually this vulnerable...

Sherlock felt suddenly very conscious of the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands, the little scratches on them from carelessly handling broken dishes last night, and how painfully obvious it was that he hadn't been taking care of himself.

Finally Mycroft spoke again, and when he did it seemed much too loud in the quiet flat. “I will be here, if you need me.” He took a deep breath and turned toward the door, composing himself. “Eat something. ...Please.”

 


End file.
